“Nobody is trying to kill you yet,” Upchurch said, “but if some hotheaded lieutenant gets to drinking and misremembering, or some old general who sat upon the board of inquiry takes to spreading gossip in the wrong places, you might well find yourself challenged.”
Had Upchurch heard something Rye had not? “Challenged over what?”
Upchurch glanced around, though this corner of the park was deserted by all save the birds and squirrels. “You recall the ambush of that patrol scouting along the Bidasoa river?”
“Of course.” Every single soldier had been taken prisoner. The war had ended within a year, and all of them had made it home—Rye had made sure of that.
“They were your men, Colonel. Scouting parties explore the terrain assigned to them.”
“They were ambushed attempting to cross the river. That’s a notoriously exposed moment in any mission.” And Rye hadn’t told them to cross the river, only to locate places where it might be safely forded by mounted forces.
“Every man on that patrol fell into French hands, and most of them yet live to tell about it. Perhaps they are the source of your troubles.”
Rye instinctively rejected that theory, though he’d have to examine it in detail later. “You could put a stop to the speculation, if that’s the case.”
“No, Goddard, I cannot. If I protest too loudly in your defense, you will only look that much more guilty. I cannot abide that a loyal officer is being subjected to slander, but trust me, towering indifference is your best weapon against this foe. That, or a timely remove to your French holdings.”
Agricola stamped a hoof, apparently ready to return to his stall and the pile of hay awaiting him there.
“If I abandon London now, I lose what custom I have remaining and gain no orders for next year’s Season. Autumn and winter are when I most need to be tending to business, or by summer, I will be in dire straits.”
“Conduct your business by correspondence.”
Rye had tried that. His letters generally went unanswered or merited only a pro forma response doubtless drafted by a clerk.
“If I knew why I am the object of such aspersion, I might more readily stop it.”
Upchurch nudged his horse a few steps away. “Goddard, you were a fine officer, so perhaps you can consider this by way of a direct order: Give it up. Somebody has nothing better to do than fan the flames of gossip where you are concerned. Don’t dignify that campaign with return fire. March right past and continue on to France.”
“If I do that,” Rye said slowly, “I confirm my guilt. I abandon the land of my birth and appear to seek safety in the society of my vanquished enemy.” Would the boys adjust happily to France, the boys born and left to make shift on London’s streets? Would they abandon Hannah, so new to her apprenticeship, to ramble around the French countryside?
Rye did not want to abandon Hannah, did not want to abandon Jeanette when he and she were so new to their rapprochement, and most assuredly did not want to abandon his prospects with Ann Pearson.
“You won’t leave England, even for a time?” Upchurch asked.
“I cannot. I am only recently returned from a prolonged visit to France.”
“Then I will continue to do my duty by you, Colonel, discreetly of course, and Melisande will add her quiet word or two in your favor. I wish you a pleasant day and every success with your vineyards.” He touched his hat brim and spurred his horse into a brisk trot up the path.
Agricola swung his nose around to sniff at the toe of Rye’s boot.
“I’m as puzzled as you are,” Rye said, giving the horse leave to walk on. “Upchurch makes sense—he’s always made sense—but he also knows more than he’s saying.” And Upchurch had ever been one to ignore troublesome realities—men brawling outside the mess tent, a lack of adequate grazing where he’d chosen to make camp, Melisande’s more determined admirers…
Rye was pondering the whole exchange as Agricola paused in his progress to leave a steaming pile of manure on the path. Had the horse not stopped, Rye might have missed the horseman half hidden along a row of plane trees.
“Deschamps, good day.”
The Frenchman rode forth on an elegant bay. “Goddard, bonjour. Comment allez-vous?”
“I am well enough, but when in England, I speak English.” Mostly. He’d probably slipped into French when kissing Ann.
“Very well, then we speak English. How was your chat with yon brigadier?”
“Pleasant. Were you eavesdropping?” Deschamps was dressed in the first stare of London fashion, but he was no longer the charming young aid-de-camp. His eyes held a coldness, and the left side of his riding jacket lay slightly askew at the waist.
He was armed, when merely hacking out in a public park in broad daylight.
“I was trying to avoid an encounter with Upchurch, if you must know. He has aged, and old soldiers are prone to tiresome reminiscences. I hear you peddle champagne these days.”
In a former life, Rye had known exactly how to deal with Deschamps. The Frenchman had been the open spy, the delegate given safe passage into the enemy camp by the exigencies of war. Rye himself had performed that office on occasion, though infrequently.
In that former life, Rye could commiserate with a French counterpart about the horrors of war without in any way compromising either party’s determination to win that war. But this version of Deschamps was a puzzle. He had no charm, no warmth, no sense of toiling along parallel paths that were likely to intersect mostly on a battlefield, to the manly regret of all concerned.
His dark good looks were turning sharp-edged, his gaze bitter.
“What brings you to London, Deschamps?”
Deschamps cocked his head, a ghost of his old insouciance in the gesture. “The fine weather. The excellent company. The magnificent entertainments.”
Rye glanced up at the sunny sky. “You have a knife in each of your boots, a pistol at your side, and a pocket full of sand, the better to blind footpads who think to take you unaware. That horse is blood stock, fast enough to outdistance any who give pursuit. You have enemies in London and would not come here but for dire necessity.”
Deschamps urged his gelding forward, so Rye allowed Agricola to toddle on as well.
“This is why I lost my enthusiasm for warfare,” Deschamps said. “The generals can hold all the peace conferences they like, but that doesn’t create peace. It only creates terms of surrender and a means of enforcing an armistice. Your champagne is quite good, I’m told.”
“The best to leave France.” What game was Deschamps playing?
“Then I wish you every success in that venture, Colonel, and in all of your endeavors. Our paths had best diverge before we break from the trees, non? London has eyes and ears, and not all of them are loyal to you. Some of them quite the opposite, I believe. But then, you know that and know to be careful as you navigate the streets of this fair city.” He tipped his hat and turned his horse down a smaller path leading off to the left.
What in blazing hell was that about? Rye turned Agricola for home and wished that he’d spent his morning sipping coffee in his office rather than let himself be lured into the park on a promise of sunshine and fresh air.